I’m walking through an apple orchard—it is a fall day; the sky is cloudy, and the surrounding trees are lit up in bright colors—reds, yellows, and various shades of brown. I smell the decaying leaves in the air and I feel the fallen leaves crunch under my feet as I walk. I also smell the vinegar of decaying apples that have fallen to the ground—some of them I step on and feel them crush under my shoes. I look up into the apple trees to find the perfect apple—one that I imagined in my mind as large, shiny-red, no blemishes—hanging within my reach. I scan the trees and there I see it! I reach for it—pull the branch down closer to me. I feel the rough bark of the branch against my skin and pull at the apple until it breaks its stem from the branch—I hear it “snap” and feel the kinetic reaction to the stem separating from the branch through the force of my pull. I smile—examine it in my hand—I turn it around to see if there is a worm hole hidden, but find it pristine and lovely—the ideal of the perfect apple I imagined in my mind’s eye. I rub the apple on my jeans to shine it’s ruby red skin, then bring it to my nose and smell its sweet familiar sent. I open my mouth and bring the skin against my teeth knowing it must be penetrated with some pressure to break into the sweet yellow juicy flesh within. I clamp down and break it open with my teeth and feel the juice squirt in my mouth with that familiar taste that I recognize from past experience. I chew the flesh and extract all the sweetness the fruit contains within—I swallow the chewed flesh and feel it going down my esophagus and then vanish into my stomach where it becomes a part of me. I feel joy in this moment—I store this memory in the folder I labeled “I love apples.”